The Wolves of Gryning: Chapter 10
Chapter 10: The Shadow Comes For Irda
In all of their travels, the only sign they'd found of the enemy was the time Nashil had suffered her episode. Tanda insisted that the Foxwoods had been crawling with the dead. He emphasized this turn of phrase, this "had been," for Besegrare and the others were weary of travel, and wanted nothing more than to be done with their quest. They'd seen no one yet with which to contend.
Furthermore, Inthil had been utterly destroyed. No one stood ready to answer them at the city gates, and they pushed their way in unceremoniously. The gates had not wanted to swing inwards and required tremendous force to move. Stacks of deadbeasts had been piled on the other side, and had been mangled and torn when they forced the gates. More corpses lined the streets and the stones were covered in what looked like rust. They knew it was blood, that it had been sitting in the sun for many weeks now. The stench of it was nauseating, and the acrid smell of smoke hung around even though all the fires had stopped burning. Buildings still bore the ashy marks of their burnt neighbors. Broken bits of wood and stone littered the standing doorframes of certain hollowed homes.
"They didn't bury the dead," Nashil said, barely masking the horror in her voice. "What about the survivors?"
"There may not be any," Tanda said. "Precious few were left in my Court."
He realized too late how callous he sounded, saw the hurt in Nashil's eyes, and quickly spoke again.
"You might be right though, about survivors. Maybe they've left, fled elsewhere."
"Not all of them," Irda said. They followed the path of his finger, saw the haggard looking wolf limping through the square. His robes were white and tattered, and his face looked drawn. Irda lifted his firetree and spoke a blessing, walking towards the beast.
"Hail, friend," he said. "We've brought help. What's your name?"
But the young Valent saw it too late. The wolf turned, a blade of pure black nothing in his hands, slick like ink. It struck him in the shoulder, and the wolf yanked it down, opening a gash across his chest.
"I am your doom," the wolf said, and they watched Irda fall twisting to the floor.
"Irda!" Nashil cried. She ran a haltering step forward and Tanda grabbed her, held her back.
"Not yet," he urged. "Wait!"
The wolf lifted his evil blade and addressed them all at once.
"You who enter this place, beware. You will find nothing here but death and the grave, which is the home of death."
"Who are you?" Besegrare asked.
"You heard me already. Must I strike you all down? I am your doom, and if you should fail to abandon your quest, I will be forced to dole out the same fate your poor friend has suffered. I am Vacka, the Hand of the Dark, and it is I who carries out the will of Death."
"And this is that will? That you linger in destroyed cities, striking down innocents?"
"Bold words from the one who won't draw his sword," the scarred wolf chuckled. "I know who you are, Your Highness, and I know what you won't do. Or shall we put it to the test?"
Tanda held his knives ready, nudged Besegrare.
"Come on, do something!" he said.
"You must," Nashil said. "You've come all this way."
The look that their enemy gave them next was dark and huge and full of a thousand years of dying. He raised his arms and held them straight out, and he closed his eyes. A shiver ran through him then, and when he opened his eyes next the look was of nothing at all.
"Don't be fooled," he said, "You are many, yes, and I am but one. But I fight with all the strength of the dark. Do you really want to find out what that looks like? I am more than happy to oblige."
For a moment nothing happened, and then Nashil cried, "Look!" The arms and legs of the dead were writhing. Huge piles of bodies began to tremble and squirm, and the corpses that rolled off grabbed the walls with rotten hands, pulled themselves up. A groan rose from Inthil so huge and heavy that the ground seemed to shake.
Besegrare did not move.
"Maybe you are wise," Vacka said. "Heed my words. I am not to be trifled with. You will leave me alone and, perhaps, you will be spared. I am patient, but Death is not."
"Why are you doing this? Does Death demand such a sacrifice?"
"Fool king!" Vacka spat. "You think I can be goaded into telling you everything? My patience, great as it is, is wearing thin. Death demands everything, and everything returns to Death. Is that enough for you? Can you begin to understand?"
"I am no fool, and you have no right to be trifling with these powers, disturbing the lives of the dead and the living. Put away your plans, whatever they are, and we will cease our pursuit. Tell that to your precious master."
"Speak carefully, king. I've told you once, I am impatient. Don't make me regret sparing you this day."
He lowered his arms and immediately the dead ceased to stir and stumble. Then he whirled and pointed his finger at the ground, and it began to shake. The crust of the world split open like a ripe melon, and a hundred hands of shadow and bone reached out towards him. They seized Vacka and pulled him into that black vortex, the wailing of a million souls rising up and closing around him, and then the ground was shut once more. There was nothing left of the wolf, no trace he'd been there, and the ground bore no scar from its opening.
"Irda!" Nashil cried again, running towards him. The little brown wolf was bleeding and his eyes had the look of darkness upon them.
"I can feel it," he said, speaking quite calmly and slowly. "I can feel my own death."
"I feel it too. I feel what you feel," she said.
"Not like this."
Irda coughed up a great glob of blood, and his head fell back upon the ground.
"My tree," he said, reaching out. His firetree lay on the ground. The evil blow seemed to have bent it in the middle, and it was covered in a layer of black like soot.
"Here," Nashil gathered up the broken tool and pressed it into his hands. From its battered insides, the ashes of the week's prayers scattered out upon him, and the young Valent smiled.
"Flame look over us," he mumbled, and he closed his eyes. His breathing grew exceptionally quiet, and Nashil looked up at the others.
"He's dying. He may make it a little longer but - How much, it's hard to say."
"He was our healer," Besegrare said. "Surely he has supplies."
"Yes, but who among us knows how to use them? Healing is an art taught to the Valents, and but a few acolytes in training. Do you know any others who know the art?"
"A wandering Valent had taken up residence in Hollow," Tanda said. "Like the rest of us, he was driven out when the dead came for us. But perhaps he still lingers near."
"Hollow is a shorter trip than back to Gryning," Nashil said.
"But can he make it?" Besegrare asked.
"He might. But we have to stop the bleeding now."
"Do you know how?"
"I can bandage and clean him. But there's something else. Look."
Nashil pointed to the site of the wound, running across Irda's chest. A black substance like mold crept over the edges of the wound, and the blood that ran out was thick with a foul grey liquid.
"Fire and flame," Tanda muttered. "What is that?"
"A curse, I fear," Nashil said. "Something that entered him when that evil weapon struck him."
"Do what you can. I need to be alone, to think," Besegrare said.
But he wasn't alone. As soon as Nashil began to bandage the wound, Tanda turned and followed the king. He followed him through several empty and broken streets, careful to walk quietly. He wasn't sure Besegrare had heard him coming, and he wasn't sure he wanted the king to know. When he turned a corner into a little square, he saw the king sitting alone beside a fountain. The water still ran from the structure, dribbling into a still pool at the bottom. Besegrare had removed his gloves and plunged his hands into the water.
"It's cold as ice," he said.
So, the king knew he'd been followed. Tanda said nothing.
"Do you think we can make it?"
"To Hollow?" Tanda spoke very softly. There was an aura of reverence in this place, for none of the dead had fallen here, and the air was very still. It was like time had frozen here the moment this place had been built; speaking too loudly, moving too quickly - these were things that could damage that moment, that could unfreeze it for good.
"I can bring us there quickly. Maybe six days, if we hurry," the fox said. "And we'll have to take some dangerous shortcuts."
"No."
Besegrare did not look away from the water, and he ran his hands back and forth through it in little circles.
"No?" the fox looked puzzled.
"That's a dead beast, back there. There is no helping him, and the shadows will take him soon."
Besegrare finally looked at him, then stood and approached. He put both his hands on the fox's shoulders.
"We will return to Gryning in the morning. Our foe is gone, if ever he existed, and his pupils undoubtedly have returned to him. What do we do now? At Gryning, at least, my wolves will be safe. There is nothing else I can do."
To this, Tanda had nothing to say. He knew that the chances of Irda surviving to morning were slim at best. He knew that their foe was in hiding. And if even his pupils were capable of such power and violence, how much stronger would the real enemy be? Mostly he hated to hear Besegrare say it aloud. The others had spoken so highly of this king, of his fighting prowess, of his devotion to honor. To hear him so hopeless was a terrible thing. He stepped away from the king and spat. When Tanda spoke next, it was out of frustration, for he felt that he had been cheated in following this beast.
"I have no home to return to. My people have been killed and scattered, and my own life these past weeks has been spent wandering my kingdoms with a pack of wolves. The one who did this to me is still out there, and still killing. But now I'm told that the one beast who might stand a chance against him is quitting, fleeing to the safety of his fortress. Listen to me - your fortress doesn't stand a chance. For a little while, maybe, but against the powers of the dark... It's just a waiting game. He will lay siege to you. And then there will be nothing left.
"I do not blame you for feeling hopeless, nor do I blame you for wanting to return home. But know this one thing. When he comes and stands before you, and his weapon is drawn, what will you do? In the face of your own death, would you sit and let it come? Or would you strike back?"
Besegrare's eyes would not meet his. And when he spoke, it was still softly, for the silence in that place had been filled with a dreadful restless buzzing. He longed for the quiet.
"We are returning in the morning," he repeated. "It's our only chance. But if I asked you to come with me, would you?"
Tanda's mouth hung open, frozen.
"Would I come with?" he repeated.
It went against everything he'd just said. To travel to Gryning, those fabled halls, and lock himself away from the evils that roamed the world - there was a certain charm to the idea. But did he really want to cower and hide, step softly for the rest of his life, that he might not trouble the slumber of the dark? He was troubled to find that he did. The idea was more than appealing. When offered the chance to come, it seemed the only rational thing left. And though he hated to say it, he knew not what else to do. "Yes," the fox said, finally. "I will come. But only for a time. I would see my home avenged, and my Court rebuilt."
"In time you may live to see it. But now is not that time."
"No. And still these are my conditions. I will not hide forever, and when the time comes you will help me rebuild Hollow. Promise me this, and you will have my pledge of loyalty. That and the hearts of all foxes, till the day I die."
"You speak with the conviction of my kind. There is some of the wolf blood in you," Besegrare said.
"Maybe that is not the worst thing," Tanda said. And then he was gone, slipping back through the streets towards the others they'd left behind, where Irda still bled and breathed. The king went back to his fountain, and sat upon the lip of the pool. He reached in with both hands, let the water close around his wrists, and he trembled.
Irda died in the middle of the night. Only Tanda had been awake. His dreams had become too horrible to face, and every night in the realms of sleep he saw his home. It had been torn apart, those underground chambers alive with the roar of fire and the screams of his people. So he had stopped sleeping.
He leaned against a stone wall, feeling very haggard. Despite his best efforts, it was hard to keep his eyes open. There had been little sound but the labored rise and fall of the Valent's breath, and each one sounded weaker than the last. When the air shifted, barely perceptible, Tanda looked up. It was not the addition of a new sound but the subtraction of that one steady noise he'd focused on. When his eyes glanced upon the Valent, he saw no movement. The bandaged chest was still, and Irda was no more.